Fascists vs Communists
by super manako sohma
Summary: Gregory got arrested for leading a resistance group against a new Fascist government, and Mole busts him out.


C'est moi….again. I wrote this for my creative writing class ages ago, but of course with different names. I thought this would make a sweet GregMole fic, so here you go.

Fascists Vs Communists

I gaze outside the tiny window of the pitch black cell. It is dusk; I can tell because they sky is pink. I shift around in the corner of the concrete, to try to find a comfortable spot. Comfortable, that's a laugh. My wrists are tied behind my back with a thick rope. It is cold, and from the looks of it, it's not getting any warmer.

A week ago I had been the leader of a band of factory workers who were laid off. A resistance group, if you will. Elections had taken place, bringing forth a new leader. He had been promising great things for the country, fixing our withered economic system and restoring the nation back to its former glory. We had faith in him. Once he took office though, everything began to change. The law was enforced in the harshest ways possible. With the downfall of the economy, people had been stealing through the night. There was a curfew set and anyone found past the designated time was either arrested or killed, depending on the amount of resistance put up.

Then he started firing factory workers, and that's when I got angry. At first it was just a couple who were not keeping up with the new system. These people, I felt, should have not even received the job in the first place. The government replaced the workers with some of the poorer members of the leader's party. Then, more and more workers were replaced, including myself. I didn't understand what I did wrong, so I went to talk to the newly appointed foreman. He threatened me to stay out of the premises, or else.

Confused, I went to talk to the other workers who hand been laid off. It turns out it wasn't just this factory, but factories throughout the state. Every single worker had been replaced by a member of the leader's party, so I suspected a lot of money was involved.

A few of the fired workers and I began gathering in secret, discussing this outrage. We had no means of income, and we wanted to do something about it. Eventually these secret meetings attracted more outraged workers, until it evolved into a resistance group. A resistance group that would fight the new government.

Every couple of days we would meet in the basement of an abandoned factory that had been burned out. No one would find us there. As the days moved on, more and more people had been coming. I was satisfied, seeing that there are a great number of people who were concerned for their rights.

But I did not stop to think about the rising numbers. A few days ago, a so called member revealed himself to be a worker of the government and that the militia will be nigh in a matter of minutes. Panicked, I rushed the resistance members out of the basement, making sure that no one was left behind. But the militia was quicker. They rounded up some of the members and began killing them one by one, on grounds of defying the government. Then, they rounded up on me. I was expecting to be dead in an instant, but instead they bound me by the hands and feet, shoving me in the back of the police truck. They whisked me off to the prison, just minutes away from the capital and slammed me in a cell. They said that because I have organized the resistance group, I'll be executed publically by the leader himself.

So here I am, living out the rest my life, alone in this cell. The walls are thick, yet I could hear the screams of the other prisoners in the surrounding rooms. How very uplifting. I shift my gaze from the window to the bowl of half-eaten meal that was sent by the guards. How I hated the food here. It's disgusting; even pigs get better slop than this crap. But I eat it, only because the hunger hurts so much.

I fix my stare back on the outside, where it is less depressing. It gave me hope, if one could call it that. It's only been a few days, yet I had already forgotten what it's like to be on the outside. The sun has now officially set, judging on how dark the sky had become. It was finally night, and the screaming of the other prisoners had died down. I took this silent opportunity to gaze up at the sky. The stars were up, and so was the full moon. Despite the luminous moon, the stars seemed to shine a lot brighter than usual.

Then the doors to my cell gave a familiar squelch as it was being opened. It was about time for my evening meal, anyway. But instead of the familiar guard at the door with the food, it was a darker figure moving stealthily. His physical stature was a lot thinner than most of the guards here. He wasn't wearing any form of armor, but a thin black shirt and green military-style pants with boots that laced up to his knees. A band was tied on the upper part of his right arm. And I froze, for instead of my meal in his hand, it was a dagger. Was it time for my execution already?

The figure moved closer and I tensed myself up, preparing for an attack. Then he spoke,

"Calm down, Gregory, I'm not going to 'urt you."

The voice was cold and crisp, yet I did not shudder. I knew this voice. It was the voice of Christophe Delorne, my best friend from childhood. I had not seen him since I began working in the factory. His family fled once the economy crashed, and that was the last I had seen of him. But what was he doing here? Now, in my cell?

He moved his daggered hand behind my body while gripping my hands and feet. Before I knew it, the rope had been severed and I could finally move my limbs again.

"Get up," he hissed, and I did so obediently. He grabbed me by the arm and led me out of my cell. I followed lucidly, not exactly expecting what would happen next. Then he reached into his pocket pulling out two handkerchiefs. He handed me one.

"Breez into zis while we're getting out," he said, holding his own handkerchief to his face. I did the same.

Quickly and stealthily, he dragged me through the passage of the prison. I had only seen this hall once, when I was being arrested. It didn't look any different, except for now the guards were lying motionless on the ground. Their eyes were shut.

"Did you—" I began, but he interrupted me.

"Knocked out wiz sleeping gas," he grunted, "zat's why I tell you to use the cloth."

I nodded and pressed my handkerchief closer.

Once we finally made it outside I breathed deeply into the night time air. How sweet freedom smelled, I had forgotten.

"We're not finished yet," Christophe said in a more audible voice, "follow me."

He sped away from the building and I followed him. I did not know where he was leading me, but I trusted him.

"Ok, you can speak now," he said. I turned to face him; it was indeed the Christophe from my childhood. He stood the same height as me as when we were children. However he grew quite a bit of muscle. His hair was still that same dark brown colour, and his eyes still shone bronze. I didn't feel myself smile until his lips curved into one. I lunged forward, and took Christophe in my arms, giggling like a lunatic. I felt his embrace around me as well, in the same force. He too expelled laughter.

"I missed you so much!" I squealed as tears of mirth rolled down my cheeks.

I felt him smile, and he let go of his grip around me. He sat down on the grassy bank and motioned for me to sit next to him.

"You remember zat stream?" He pointed to the rushing water, "we always played zere when we were cheeldren."

During my youth, I was always with Christophe, playing games by the river. They were just little chasing games, yet to give it meaning, we'd call it Fascists vs. Communists. In every occasion, I was the Fascist mercenary sent by the government to hunt down the Communist rebel in a grueling takeover. I was very fast, so I always won. Christophe on the other hand was a master of concealment, and was able to put up a decent battle, whether he took refuge inside the lush green bushes or even among the rocks in the icy waters.

Funny how things change.

"Yeah," I said dreamily, forgetting myself for a second. Then he laughed.

"Remember when you fell in ze water and your muzza scolded you for ruining zat sweater?"

I smacked him lightly.

"That was your fault, Commie!"

He shook his head unexpectedly.

"I'm not ze commie anymore," he said, "look who's ze one leading revolutionary resistance groups."

I spun around.

"How do you know?!"

"How else would I know?"

Then I saw it; the red armband tied on his upper right arm sported the seal of the fascist leader. Which could only mean one thing.

"You're working for the government?" I asked.

He ruffled my hair like a child.

"But—but—" I sputtered, "why?" I didn't mean so sound as I did; sure I didn't like the government and all its unfair changes, but I didn't think he of all people did either.

"Once ze new leader came to power, ze first person who went and supported him was my stupeed muzza. As a result ze leader gave me a job."

I knew Christophe's mum was working for the government during our childhood, but knowing her and how very worker-supporting she is, the leader would have fired her.

"What do you do in the government?" I asked.

"If I tell you, I'd be fired and have to kill you," he said. My blood ran cold.

"You would kill me?"

"Zat ees ze order."

"Christophe!"

"_Désolé_," he said gently, "zis job means everyzing to me. For ze first time, my family 'as money, unlike when Muzza was working for zat corrupt republic. Ze new leader takes 'is employees seriously, and ze pay is staggering. My family is 'appy now, and I'm doing all I can to make zem smile."

I guess I could understand why he would take the job; it's actually kind of sweet. He would go against something he believed in just to make his family happy, and I honored that.

"Well, I wish you best of luck then," I said to ease tension.

He smirked.

"I wouldn't be talking, considering ze position you're in right now."

"Again Chris, that was your fault. But I'm curious, why _did_ you free me?"

"I'm afraid zat is a secret."

"You've put a larger price on my head than before, you know."

"I know. But don't worry. We can keel a different prisoner, saying it's you and we'll have your identity changed so you can work with me in ze government."

As enticing as that offer sounded, I refused.

"Sorry Chris, but I'm staying with the resistance."

He sighed heavily and looked at the ground.

"You realize zat by staying with ze resistance you'll furzer endanger yourself as not only an escaped prisoner, but a government defiant?"

"I understand."

"You realize zat ze next time you get shoved into the prison for execution I might not be zere to rescue you?"

"If I die, it won't matter. The résistance will live, and topple this unjust government."

"You…" he muttered, "same old Gregory."

I chuckled.

"Then we are on opposite sides now," he said standing up.

"Please don't be like that," I said, "we're still friends. Best friends."

"Always," he replied.

The sound of clanging metal and loud speaking was just to the other side of us, and I could tell Christophe was panicked. He looked over his shoulder briefly as did I; the nightly militia was not yet visible.

"We're past curfew," he stated. He picked me up from the ground by the arm and led my away from the stream, to the middle of the street. On one side were the factories and communal homes. The other side housed the capital.

"Hurry," he hissed, "I'll see you again sometime soon, I promise."

I gave him a small smile and dashed off before the militia arrived. My home wasn't too far away from the midpoint, but I had to be quick. Once I was in the safe recluses of the communes, I looked behind me; Christophe was still standing at the spot, however looking smug. He flashed me a peace sign with his hand, causing me to utter a small laugh. There are some things that have matured over time, yet some things, the most important things, stay stagnant.

XX

Why do I make these two so political? Eh...I love them =)


End file.
